Chapter Fourteen

We Honor and Remember Their Sacrifice

Jimmie strolled through the park, kicking a hypodermic needle along the sidewalk like a can. Though the pathway was well lit, Clinton Plaza was still a war zone of drug users, transients, and anonymous-sex seekers. And it was all by design.

One of Trump’s earliest executive actions was to have the Federal Bureau of Land Management take over Logan Park. It had long been known as the most degenerate of public spaces in the city. Instead of cleaning it up, however, Trump simply renamed it after his Democratic rival. With the twelve-acre land under federal jurisdiction, local authorities stopped patrolling it at night. Trump conveniently didn’t approve funds to staff it with federal officers, and things went downhill even further. On a scale of one to ten for safety, Clinton Plaza scored just under a Trump rally.

Clinton Plaza was only a short walk from where Jimmie was staying. He arrived about fifteen minutes ahead of time. At least, that was his estimate—he’d left his government-issued phone back at the hotel. Now that he was here, though, he kind of wished he had ignored the stranger’s request to leave his phone behind. What if it was all a ruse to get him away from his room so that somebody could ransack it?

The phone was useless without his thumbprint. But there was always a chance they could lift his prints from the bottle of coconut oil beside the bed and cast a replica of his thumb, and—

Okay, now you’re moving from “conspiracy theories” into “hospitalization” territory, he told himself. All that’s missing is for you to hear voices.

As if on cue, he started hearing voices. Whispers from an element-battered tent; a hushed argument taking place somewhere deep in the woods. Closer to him, the chirping of a house finch. The same type of bird that had landed on Bernie’s podium at a Portland rally. The poor bird had become an unofficial symbol of the last of the protestors in America.

Jimmie kicked the needle into the grass and picked up his pace. He was headed nowhere in particular, but he was in a hurry to get there. Whoever wanted to meet him would find him.

He stopped at the polished granite wall in the center of the park. The structure stood ten feet tall and stretched at least fifty feet along the pathway. There were hundreds of names engraved on it. The plaque bearing the wall’s name and dedication was covered in moss. One word was visible: BENGHAZI.

So this was the Benghazi Memorial. Jimmie remembered the press conference where Trump had announced it. Speaking alongside his then wife Megyn Kelly, Trump had said, “Let us remember the sacrifices made in the wake of Hillary Clinton’s terrible, embarrassing foreign policy disasters when she was the worst secretary of state in history.”

“What a joke,” a voice said from behind Jimmie.

Jimmie glanced over his shoulder. A solidly built man clad in a gray hoodie and jeans had crept up behind him. He didn’t know if this was some random weirdo or the person who’d tapped out the code. Either way, Jimmie had to assume he was dangerous.

“A joke?” Jimmie said. “People died over there.”

“Read the plaque.”

“It’s covered in moss.”

“Then wipe it off,” the man said with growing irritation.

“I’ve never liked moss,” Jimmie said. “It feels weird. It’s furry.”

“Cats are furry, and people pet them all the time.”

“They’re not green. Most of them, at least.”

The man crossed in front of Jimmie and, with his hand wrapped in his jacket, wiped the plaque off. He stepped back and let Jimmie read the bronze tablet bolted into the stone:

IN MEMORY OF THE MEN AND WOMEN

WHO SERVED ON THE HOUSE SELECT COMMITTEE ON BENGHAZI

AND SO VALIANTLY GAVE OF THEIR TIME

WE HONOR AND REMEMBER THEIR SACRIFICE

Jimmie took a closer look at the engravings that spanned the length of the wall. “Trey Gowdy, SC-04,” he read aloud. “Susan Brooks, IN-05. Jim Jordan, OH-04. Mike Pompeo . . . KS-04.” There were eight more names in the sequence before they repeated—a total of twelve names.

“This isn’t the Benghazi Memorial,” the stranger said. “It’s the Benghazi Hearings Memorial. It’s a memorial for the politicians who wasted their time interrogating Hillary Clinton about the Benghazi attacks. I’m no fan of hers, but the Right continues to treat her like she’s some kind of war criminal. The man who built this could care less that four Americans died that night in Libya.”

“And the man who built this wall . . .”

“Is your new boss,” the stranger said. “Welcome to Washington, Mr. Bernwood.”